


Home for Cristmas

by Ephemera_pop (Alex_Draven)



Category: Popslash
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Art School, DWNOGA, Homelessness, M/M, Secret Santa, UK AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-25
Updated: 2006-12-25
Packaged: 2018-10-19 16:07:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10643349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alex_Draven/pseuds/Ephemera_pop
Summary: "I'm sorry, guys. I love you. All of you."Nick hung up the payphone, and slumped back against the cold glass and red metal door. The London Runaways Hotline said it would pass messages in confidence, nationwide, but Nick wasn't sure that his mum would want to hear from him, and he was pretty sure she'd never let Aaron and his sisters listen to it. It was Aaron and the girls who Nick missed. Still, it made him feel better to have made the call. At least he'd tried to contact them for Christmas.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for loz22, for Don We Now Our Gay Apparel, 2006.

"I'm sorry, guys. I love you. All of you."

Nick hung up the payphone, and slumped back against the cold glass and red metal door. The London Runaways Hotline said it would pass messages in confidence, nationwide, but Nick wasn't sure that his mum would want to hear from him, and he was pretty sure she'd never let Aaron and his sisters listen to it. It was Aaron and the girls who Nick missed. Still, it made him feel better to have made the call. At least he'd tried to contact them for Christmas.

Someone tapped on the phone-box, and Nick jumped, instinctively hunching over and away.

"Nick? Nick Carter? It is you!"

The door opened with a blast of frigid air, and suddenly the small space was full of sound and movement and - Justin Timberlake?

"Shit, man, what happened to you? We've been really worried - I mean you just vanished part way through the final project, and - shit. Nick? Are you okay?"

Justin had his hand on Nick's shoulder, and Nick could feel it through all the layers he'd managed to find. It had been so cold the last few days. Cold to the bone, and now Justin was touching him, and Nick realised he was shaking. He must look like a total wreck, unwashed hair and wearing all his clothes, dragging around what was left of his life in a beat-up kit bag. It took a real effort of will to lift his head and push his hair back off his face, and to look Justin in the eye. Justin's face was a picture of shock and concern.

"No, not really." Nick's voice sounded hoarse, catching on all the emotions in his chest.

"Fuck. Oh Nick. Just - um - shit. Right. Do you want a cup of coffee?"

Nick choked, and then laughed. It was crazy. Insane. Everything was so fucked up, and here was Justin Timberlake, St Martin's golden boy, with his portfolio wedging the phone box door open, offering Nick a cup of coffee like they'd just walked out of art class together. Like Nick had always kind of hoped Justin might do on their way out of class. It felt wild and impossible and reckless, but yes.

"Yes. Yes, I'd love a coffee."

A coffee would be a start.

*****

He'd thought it would be harder than this. Harder to tell someone. Harder to spill it all out - the fears and the poisoned words and the way his family had always been fucked up, and the way everything had just fallen apart when his mum had re-married.

"I gave her away," he confessed. "I walked her down the aisle, in this little shitty registry office, and I gave her hand to Neil. I did that. And now that man" - Nick's mouth felt sour around the word. - "Thinks he's my father. And she lets him. He doesn't approve. Thinks I should get a proper job, instead of wasting my time and his money on 'hanging around with a bunch of poofs at art school'. So - mum cut my support, didn't pay the rent ..."

"Shit." Justin's voice sounded almost awed. They were sitting face to face across the melamine table of a greasy-spoon café, both with their hands wrapped around comfortingly hot mugs of coffee, and Justin's fingers brushed the back of Nick's.

"And then of course, I really screwed things up."

Justin drew a breath, like he was about to argue, and Nick let the words tumble out, before that could happen. Because he had. Really, really, really screwed up.

"I told Neil that I was one of those poofs." Nick shrugged. "That was fucking dumb, really."

"Well - no."

Nick blinked.

"He sounds like a grade A arsehole, Nick."

"Well - yeah. But still, if I'd kept quiet, maybe I'd have a place to go back to."

"You mean he - they..."

Nick had always got on pretty well with Justin - in fact he'd had a bit of a thing for Justin - but just how naive was he?

"Yeah, basically."

"So you've been - what?"

"Riding the circle line, trying to get into hostels, and kipping in shop doorways, Justin. Since the middle of winter finals." It sounded harsh, but Nick was all out of sugar coating.

"Fuck, man. That's ... fuck."

Nick nodded, and took a long swallow of warm, sweet coffee because what else was there to say?

"Will you stay with me?"

*****

Justin's flat was tiny, but it was all his - no housemates - and it was perched up above the crowds of last minute Christmas shoppers on a side street in Covent Garden: Nick didn't want to think about how much it must cost. It was warm, too, and the walls were covered in posters and postcards and flyers, and sketches, and there was a shop dummy standing in the corner, wearing a red military jacket and a feather boa. There was a living-and-bed room, with a fold-out couch folded out and covered in a nest of unmade bed clothes, and a big desk and drawing board taking up most of the end near the door. There were two doors coming off the landing where Nick was standing. He could just see the corner of a cooker through one, and he assumed the other one must be the bathroom. He let his kit bag slide to the floor at the top of the stairs. Justin had propped his portfolio against the desk and was trying to sort out the bed clothes.

"Um, sorry - wasn't expecting guests." Justin was talking over his shoulder. "You'll have to - um - it doesn't really fold up any more."

"Hey, Justin? Seriously, I don't care. It's great."

Justin stood up, and they smiled awkwardly at each other for a moment.

"Anyway, um, yes - take a seat. You hungry? Cup of tea?" They'd had all-day-breakfasts in the café, after Justin had realised just how not-okay Nick must have been, which was more hot food than Nick had had in a couple of days, and his stomach was warm and heavy with it.

"This is kind of embarrassing, but, um, could I take a shower?" Nick asked.

"Shit, yes! Of course. I should have thought. I'm sorry."

"Justin?"

"Yeah?"

"Chill. You're being incredible, so, just - you know - relax. I'm not here to write a piece for Good Housekeeping."

Justin smiled and nodded. "Fair point." He stepped closer, and put his hand on Nick's shoulder again. "I just want ... I don't know. I wish I'd known before you vanished, I guess. I want make things be okay."

Nick's throat was thick with feelings he didn't know how to deal with, but he managed a crooked smile. "Man, if I didn't stink, I'd hug you. You're a hero."

"C'mere."

Justin tried to pull him into a hug, and Nick automatically stiffened, and then pressed a hand against Justin's chest.

"Dude, really, I stink."

Justin fell back with a shake of the head, but he was still smiling.

"You're alright but - whatever. Bathroom's through there and there are towels on the back of the door. Borrow anything you need, razors and stuff."

"Hero, I tell you." Nick's face was stiff from smiling.

"Nick." Justin's voice was suddenly serious. "That's what friends are for." And then, when Nick couldn't work out how to react to that, "go on - the water's always hot."

Nick went.

*****

The hot water was blissful. Hot water and proper shower gel and a door that locked. The shelter had been a lifesaver - maybe literally seeing how cold it had got that night - but Nick had never managed to actually relax. It felt like an institution, and there were too many people, and it smelled all wrong, but this - this was a proper bathroom. A little cleaner than the one he'd been sharing all term, but still a place that belonged to a person: Justin's shower stuff in a caddy hanging on the wall, Justin's shaving kit on the windowsill, his toothpaste and brush in a 'We Are Londoners' mug with the handle broken off. It was a little overwhelming.

He tipped his face back under the stream of water, and then pushed the water out of his eyes. He actually felt warm, all the way through, and when he rolled his head, his neck didn't crack and cramp. Until he started thinking, and then his throat started to close up, and his stomach churned, and - he squeezed another dollop of Justin's expensive spicy shower gel into his hand and used it to wash his hair for a second time, scrubbing at his scalp with firm movements, squeezing it though the length of his hair, feeling the hair squeak between his fingers.

He stayed in the shower until his fingers began to wrinkle, the nails all soft, and pink and white, instead of edged with dirt. He shut off the shower, and pushed his hair back, squeezing as much water as he could out of his short pony tail, before stepping out of the tub to reach for a towel. They were big, burgundy, fluffy bath sheets, four or five of them, hanging on hooks on the door. Justin even had a matching bath mat, and a smaller towel hanging by the sink. Nick rubbed himself down, and then wrapped one sheet around his waist, and took a second to rub at his hair - it smelled of fabric conditioner and unfamiliar detergent - and then drape over his shoulders.

When he looked in the mirror over the sink he barely recognised himself. His eyes seemed wider than normal, a little blood shot, and his chin was covered in patchy blond stubble. He hadn't dared try to shave in the shelter - he hadn't been able to stop shivering. He held up his right hand between himself and his reflection, and couldn't see it shaking this time.

Justin had shaving gel, and an open packet of disposable razors - the good kind, with lubra-strips and rubberized handles and five blades and shit, not the cheap Bics that Nick usually bought for himself. He took Justin at his word, and extracted one of them from the packet, sliding off the clear plastic cap before he squirted a palm-full of foaming gel into his palm. It started blue, and foamed into a mass of creamy white, and smelt clean and tangy when Nick started smoothing it onto his skin.  
The scrape of the razor left stripes of sensitised skin, where Nick could feel the air touching him, but his hand didn't shake, and he didn't cut himself, and when he rinsed his face and patted it dry on the towel around his neck, he looked more like himself in the mirror. He ran a hand over his own face. He felt more like himself too. It felt good to be clean, and warm, and safe.

And then Nick looked at the mound of grubby clothes on the floor of the bathroom, and his heart sank.

He didn't have anything that was properly clean, any more. His kit bag was half full of things that were even more dirty than the clothes he'd taken off. He kept thinking that he'd be able to raise the money for a launderette, but everything he'd managed to collect by busking, and then by slaughtering his pride and out and out begging, had gone on hostel rooms and food.

He thought about putting them on - he picked up his jeans and fingered the grimy, smooth denim - but his stomach turned. He was already accepting Justin's charity. He could swallow his pride a bit more. He kicked his clothes aside, and opened the bathroom door just enough to poke his head out.

"Justin?"

"Yup!" Justin appeared from the main room.

"I, um, don't suppose I could ..."

"Borrow some clothes?" Justin produced a folded stack of what looked like sweatpants and t-shirts and a jumper. There was a balled-up pair of socks balancing on the top. "I think these might fit? I figured you might want to wash your clothes. There's a washing machine in the kitchen, by the way. Powder's on the top."

Nick could feel his cheeks colouring. "Thank you."

"Friends." Justin glared at him with mock severity, and then pushed the clothes into Nick's hands.

*****

The sweatpants and the t-shirt were a little snug - not even two weeks on the streets was going to turn Nick into whipcord muscle like Justin - but the blue sweater was huge enough to cover a multitude of sins, coming down to Nick's thighs, the sleeves falling over his hands. He was kind of grateful for that, once he'd bundled his clothes into the washing machine, and set it for a heavy wash.

Justin had left washing powder and fabric conditioner on the work surface, and the rest of the narrow galley kitchen was neat, with just one mug and a bowl and spoon sitting by the sink. Apparently Justin ate cereal for breakfast, and had matching cream and burgundy crockery. Nick had lost his miss-matched collection of bowls and pans and mugs along with his room.

But there was only so long Nick could spend looking around the kitchen, and when the washing machine gurgled into life, he drifted over to the doorway of the living room.

"Hey," he said, hiding his hands inside the jumper's sleeves, not knowing what to do with himself.

"Hey yourself," Justin replied, jumping up from the desk and hovering in the middle of the room. "You feeling better? You look better."

Nick automatically pushed his hair back, knowing that it must look like a flyaway mess now it was drying. Although that was better than greasy and lank. Justin's buzzcut didn’t need shampoo, let alone conditioner. "Yeah, thanks."

"This is dumb." Justin started speaking again in a rush, "C'mon, sit down."

He gestured to the sofa bed, sitting down himself on the edge. Nick came into the room, looking around, settling cautiously on the bed, next to Justin. The room was slightly L-shaped, and beyond the foot of the bed, where Nick hadn't been able to see from the door, there was a bank of wardrobes with their doors shut, and some plastic crates stacked against the wall, with paint tubes and bottles of guache and fabrics and stuff spilling out. There was an old-fashioned SLR camera on a tripod leaning against the wall, and a big unframed mirror hanging on the wall, reflecting the hodge-podge of velvets and fabrics and fairy lights that seemed to serve as Justin's curtains. The tumble of pictures and posters and paintings continued around the walls. The room was really really - Justin. Beautiful, and all artistic flair and casual brilliance.

"You okay?" Justin sounded unsure of himself, and his hand hovered near Nick's knee.

"Yeah - sorry - just taking it all in. You've really decorated this place. I like it."

"I'm just using the place as a scrapbook, you know? Anything that catches my eye: bang, on the wall. It's good inspiration. Kind of like those source books Hodgekins is always on at us to keep."

"Yeah, he was really ..." Nick went to reply, and then remembered that his sketchbooks were gone, and it didn't matter, anyway, because he'd failed this term, and it wasn't like he could go back to college next year, anyway. "Fuck."

"Nick?" Justin's hand was warm on Nick's leg, but Nick couldn't find any words for all the feelings that were trying to be felt at the same time, and when he did manage to open his eyes and look at Justin everything was stary and blurred from the tears in his eyelashes. Nick felt like he was gulping for air, and when Justin reached across and stroked his thumb over Nick's cheek, smearing tears that felt cold in its wake, something gave, and Nick found himself crying.

He couldn't stop, he was just sobbing, head in his hands, all snot and tears and wet ugly sounds, and Justin's hand rubbing circles on his back, and Justin saying his name and 'its okay' over and over and over.

*****

Eventually, the sobs became less overwhelming, and Nick found that he could breathe in more evenly, and start having rational thoughts again. Thoughts like just how embarrassing it was to have broken down, and in front of Justin of all people. Nick's shoulders stiffened, and he pulled back, sweeping the heels of his hands over his face.

"I'm sorry," Nick started, and Justin cut him off.

"Shut up," he said with affection. "Really, it's okay. You've had a really really shitty time of things, it's okay. Boys can cry too."

Nick snorted, and stayed sitting up, but he let Justin's hand rest on his back.

"You know, my granny gave me that jumper," Justin continued. "Before she died. I was fifteen and it came down to my knees. I went to boarding school that year, and I hated it. I was a year ahead there, too, and none of the boys in my classes wanted to room with me, and I was so homesick, like, you wouldn't believe, and my granny sent me that jumper, and I've kind of kept it for days when I need to have something to hide in, so, really, Nick, you're not the first guy to cry in it, okay? I mean, I'm not saying it's the same thing, like, at all, but if I can cry 'cos London is so fucking lonely sometimes, you are way, way, way more entitled."

Nick found himself nodding somehow, and twisting the cuff of one sleeve so he had a less soggy bit of jumper to wipe his eyes with.

"I never thought I'd hear the great Timberlake confess to something so un-manly." Nick pushed a smile through his drying tears. Justin's hand went from stroking to shoving gently.

"Shut up, Carter. I'm kind of flaming, and I go to art school, remember. I was never trying for macho."

"I don't know." Nick tilted his head and looked at Justin. His shaved hair threw his strong features into stark relief, and there was nothing queenie that Nick could see about the open Oxford, or the tight white t-shirt under it, tucked into Justin's broad, plain belt at the front, the worn jeans. "I mean..." He stumbled, realising that he'd been staring at Justin. "You don't really give off the Graham Norton vibe."

Justin's lips quirked. "Well - thanks, I think."

*****

Somehow, they ended up curled together on the couch, up at the head end, where there was a sofa-back to support them, and outside it had started to rain. Justin wouldn't let Nick go, and now he'd stopped fighting it, it felt good. Oddly normal, but good. Justin kept fiddling with Nick's hair, and Nick had his hands burrowed into the space between their chests. It was warm and quiet and Nick felt safer than he had in weeks, maybe months, listening to Justin talk.

Nick had asked how come Justin was still in London on Christmas Eve, and the resultant ramble had so far covered ski conditions in Europe, an anecdote about Justin's mum as a debutante, and a long explanation of why Justin didn't really care for goose, but really the answer seemed to boil down to ...

"So, you and your dad don't really get on, huh?" Nick asked. Justin's hands went still.

"You could say that, yeah."

"Is it because ... I mean, do they know? That you're ..." Nick couldn't quite bring himself to say it.

"That I'm gay? I don't suppose that helps, but really - I can't stand the man. He was such an utter bastard to my mum when I was younger, and - oh, they got divorced when I was fourteen, by the way - and he's a bully. A real bully. I don't know why my mum insists that I have to have Christmas with him, but she always has. Only, now I'm not at school any more ... I mean, being here alone was looking kind of dull, but compared with spending five days in a ski chalet with my father? And his wife? I'll take lonely any time."

"That sounds kind of ... messy," was the best Nick could offer in the face of Justin's offhand air.

"Oh, it is. I mean - it's not ... It could be worse."

There was a less comfortable moment while both of them thought about just how bad it could be, and then Justin hooked Nick's hair behind his ear, and pulled away a little bit, so there was space between them.

"You do know you can stay here," he said, earnestly. "That I'd like you to stay here. As long as you need to, or you want to, or, um..."

Nick closed his eyes, and when he opened them he realised: Justin was blushing. His own stomach was tying itself in knots.

"I don't ... I mean, thank you. Really, really, thank you, but, um ..."

"I've been thinking, you see," Justin hurried on. "I mean, you'll get your next loan cheque in January, and as soon as the college opens again we can find out about the hardship fund, and getting your maintenance re-assessed without parental support, and you can talk to Hodgekins and Mrs Dee about re-submitting last term's assessment, or getting a waiver or something, and I'm sure they would, because you're brilliant, and this has absolutely nothing to do with any of that, because I mean that anyway, and I can always sleep on the blow-up, but I've kind of fancied you since the first week of term."

The flow of words stopped, and Nick felt a bit like he was in a cartoon, suspended out in midair, able to fly until he looked down.

"You ..." was all he could manage to say.

Justin's cheeks were burning, and he was sitting very still. "Oh, shit," he said, in a very small voice. "Nick, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

This time it was Nick who reached out, a tentative hand brushing against Justin's shoulder. He didn't know what to say. He didn't know what to think.

Justin took hold of Nick's hand, as though he was afraid that Nick was going to bolt.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I thought you should know, but, that was - that was selfish, I'm sorry. You've got to be - shit. I'm sorry, Nick."

Nick stopped trying to think, and used the hand Justin was clinging onto to pull him closer, wrapping one arm around Justin's shoulders in a hug.

"Okay," Nick said, slowly. "Justin, please. You have nothing to be sorry for, okay? I'm just a bit ... there's a lot to process, okay. I'm not freaking out. Are you freaking out?"

Justin hesitated and then nodded. "Well, maybe, a bit," he admitted.

"Well, stop."

And that made Justin smile, which made Nick smile back.

"Okay," Justin agreed. "I did mean it, though: you have a place to stay, whatever, Nick."

"God, come here." Nick pulled Justin into a tighter hug, burying his face in Justin's neck. Everything was too much, but somehow being like this with Justin wasn't. Or not in a bad way. And maybe that was all he needed to know, really.

They separated slowly, and Justin was staring down at his hands when Nick finally made himself look up.

"You fancied me?" Nick asked.

"Um, fancy, yes." Justin looked up, and bit his lip.

"And you'd still let me stay here, and you'd sleep on the floor, if that's what I said I wanted?"

Justin nodded, his lower lip still pinched between his teeth.

"But you actually kind of want to get it on with me?"

Justin's cheeks pinked up again, and he nodded once, before he burst out with "but I really mean it, Nick, about the floor, I don't want you to think I'm taking advantage, or ..."

Nick snorted, despite himself. "You realise that people will assume that I'm the one taking advantage, right? I mean, if ... What kind thing are we talking about, here, Justin? One night stand, or ..?"

"Boyfriends?" Justin blurted out, and then he froze. "Unless that was totally the wrong thing to say? I'm screwing this up, aren't I? I've never actually ... shit."

"Hey, hey, Justin? You're not screwing this up. I'm just trying to - I don’t know - figure out what's where. 'Cos, you know, I think..."

Justin's hand across Nick's mouth was completely unexpected.

"Shh, Nick, don't - don't say anything. You don't have to decide anything tonight. I don't want to push you into anything."

Nick tried to shake his head free, but Justin hung on.

"Really, really, really, Nick. Don’t. Why don't you sleep on it, huh? Please?"

Nick went limp, and eventually Justin removed his hand. He was watching Nick with wide, worried eyes.

"Okay," Nick said slowly. "I'll sleep on it. I can do that."

There was a pause.

"You've really never ...?"

"No," Justin mumbled, and despite everything, Nick had to smile.

*****

The click of the door and the sound of diminishing footsteps woke Nick with a start, and there was a moment of disorientation when he found himself in a warm bed in a room he didn't recognise. The lamp on Justin's desk was on, a warm, comfortable glow that helped Nick figure things out, and then to see the note on the arm of the sofa. It wasn't a small note - a whole page torn out of a large sketchpad, with Justin's flowery handwriting spidered over it. Nick tilted it towards the light, and squinted at it.

_Gone to Midnight Mass. Back soon. Happy Christmas! J_

Christmas. Justin. Nick drew his knees up, and wrapped his arms around them. It was Christmas. Or almost Christmas, and he was warm, dry, safe. He was rested, and he was kind of hungry, but - kind of hungry - not the gut-scratching sensation he'd discovered on the streets. He could get up out of bed and go into the kitchen and drink a glass of water from the tap, and probably make a sandwich, and it was kind of crazy how weird that was, when it had been his normal reality for his whole life bar the past couple of weeks. And Justin, who'd made it normal again. Justin...

Justin who he'd always looked at, and always kind of thought was out of his league, and who was so stupidly talented that Nick had never really stopped to think about how young he was, and how hard it might be for him to have moved to a big city where no one cared. Who might have money, but who's family was still pretty messed up. Who was beautiful, and endearingly shy, under all the charm, and who wanted Nick to be his first. Who fitted so perfectly in Nick's arms, and who Nick kind of believed when he told Nick that the roof over his head wasn't conditional on sharing Justin's bed.

It was remarkable how easy it was to make the decision, how calm Nick felt from the moment he thought to himself 'I could kiss Justin. I could maybe even love Justin. That could work'.

Nick eased his way out of the bed, and padded to Justin's desk. There was a pot of pens and pencils by the base of the lamp, and Nick located a green fine-point sharpie. Folding Justin's note in half, he scribbled for a few minutes, and looked at his work, made a couple of alterations, and then decided that it would have to do. He replaced the pen, and balanced the folded note on the top of the sofa, before sliding back under the duvet, happy to doze and be warm and to listen to the rain outside, knowing that it was outside, and couldn’t get him, and that Justin would be back for Christmas.

Above his head, there was a cartoon of some mistletoe, and the word, _yes_. Nick figured that Justin would get the point.

***** fin *****


End file.
